i hope you don't mind (that i put down into words)
by faitaccompli23
Summary: Auslly. "I've been told my methods are...unconventional." "Unconventional is kind of what I need right now." Austin is a famous singer with writer's block. Ally is a songwriter with a heart of gold, who signs on to help Austin write his new album. Chaos ensues.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This couple. Good gracious. Teensy first chapter. This should be less of a sobfest than give me your hearts to hold (though as per usual, I have no clue where it's going). I'm half convinced it'll be a spectacular failure, but I guess we'll see? Let me know what you think!

Disclaimer: _Austin and Ally _is definitely not mine.

* * *

"...with a swoop and a dart  
out flew his wish  
(it dived like a fish  
but it climbed like a dream)  
throbbing like a heart  
singing like a flame..."

**-e.e. cummings**

"Hopeless."

Austin sighs, crumpling up the piece of paper he'd been staring at for the past ten minutes. He tosses it in the vague direction of the trashcan near the studio door, just as his best friend opens it. The crumpled ball of paper rolls to a stop at Dez's feet.

"Hopeless." Austin repeats, dropping his head to the table with a thunk.

"I see the song's really coming along." Dez says wryly, picking up the ball and uncrumpling it. He clears his throat.

"There once was a bullfrog

who lived on a farm

this is a love song

ladidada."

He raises his eyebrows in Austin's direction as he finishes reading. "A bullfrog?"

Austin lifts his head. "They're a romantic amphibian!" He replies defensively. "Haven't you ever seen _The Little Mermaid_? The bullfrogs basically carried the entire soundtrack."

Dez stares at him. "You used the phrase 'There once was a bullfrog who lived on a farm.'" He crinkles his forehead as he looks at the lyrics again. "And not even ironically."

Austin maintains a defensive glare for a few moments before his expression shifts to despondency. "I know. It's pretty bad."

Dez throws himself into the chair across from Austin and glances briefly at the piles of discarded sheet music. He shifts his gaze to the prone figure of his best friend, head buried morosely in the crook of his elbow. "I've known you for over a decade and I've never seen you this blocked."

Austin's reply is muffled. "I know." He sits back up, running a restless hand through his hair. "I've always been able to pull my music from my life. But lately, it's like... I don't know. Like I've lost inspiration, or motivation or something."

Dez takes a breath. "Have you considered consulting with another songwriter?" He says tentatively.

Austin looks at his friend, surprised and a little offended. "You think I need it?"

Dez shrugs. "As your best friend, I'm all for you working through this on your own." He pauses. "But as your manager, I don't think it'd hurt."

Austin frowns. "I just hate the idea of singing someone else's song. It's always just been me and the music. I like it that way."

"I know." Dez's voice is sympathetic but blunt as he continues. "But you haven't been able to write anything for months now. Your new album is slated to come out in less than a year, and we don't even have any material for it yet."

Austin shifts in his chair. He's known this was coming for awhile now; it's common for artists to collaborate with songwriters-encouraged, even. But the thought of working with someone who might not understand his vision, his music; it doesn't sit right with him.

Dez checks his phone and stands. "I have to go give a progress report to Jimmy." He stops on his way to the door, turning to Austin. "I'll forward you a list of prospective candidates in the area. Just... sleep on it. Okay?"

Austin nods as Dez walks out. Five minutes later, his phone beeps with a notification: Dez's list. He ignores it, picking up a pen and a new piece of paper instead. He sits and stares at the blank sheet pensively.

"Maybe I should try 'seagull' instead and see how it sounds?"

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, he scratches out his sixth try at a first line. "I hate when Dez is right." Austin grumbles to himself. He eyes his phone warily.

"Here goes nothing."

He opens the email with trepidation. There's a list of eleven people, with phone numbers and contact information in separate columns. He automatically rules out the first few names; they're Starr Records' in-house songwriters, and he knows that any song he writes with them will be tired and recycled-the opposite of his goal for his music. He grimaces at the next name; Tilly Thompson is notorious for saccharine lyrics and a heavy hand with the autotune button, and she definitely doesn't jive with Austin's sound. A couple names down the list he comes across Dallas Eliot, whose resume seems promising; but after a little online research, Austin finds that Dallas leans more towards technopop and electric rock, so he scraps that name too. Kira Starr, sixth on the list, is the obvious pick; she's got a solid musical background, Austin's worked with before, and to top it off, she's the boss's daughter. The problem is that Austin's always found her music a little flat: perfectly pitched and harmonized, decently written, but disconnected-almost sterile. He sets her aside for reluctant consideration before moving on. There's one songwriter left on the list, and as he murmurs at her name, he feels a faint shiver of _something_ go up his spine.

"I hope you're the one, Ally Dawson."

* * *

The girl in question blows a piece of hair out of her hair in frustration. She and her best friend are in the process of moving into their new apartment, but getting her piano up the stairs to the fourth floor has proven difficult. She had decided to drive cross-country and make the trek from Miami to Los Angeles by herself, to save money on the moving company; now it feels like a bad decision.

"Why did we decide to live in a walkup again?" Her best friend's voice carries over the piano wedged in the stairwell.

Ally sighs, leaning on the instrument with a groan. "This apartment was the only one we saw that had soundproofing." She glares at the piano. "Although at this point, I might not even need it."

Trish's laugh turns to a sigh. She looks up the stairs hopefully. "Maybe we have deeply attractive, friendly, bodybuilding neighbors?"

Ally crinkles her nose doubtfully. "It's a corner apartment, and I'm pretty sure Mrs. Cuthbert from next door is, like, seventy." She pulls up her sleeves and lifts the closest side of the piano. "One more floor. We can do it. We are strong, independent, successful young women with goals and careers and biceps of steel."

Trish groans in response.

"I'll carry all your shoeboxes if you help me get this up the stairs." Ally cajoles. "_And_ you can pick the movie for our next marathon night."

Trish's voice drifts up the stairs as the piano rises. "Oh, Ally. Bad trade. There are so many Zaliens in your future."

* * *

Four hours later, Trish and Ally have finally gotten everything up the stairs. They take a breather, sitting on the wooden floorboards of the living room, surveying their new abode. The rent is fairly astronomical, even by Miami standards, but it's in a safe neighborhood, has enough closets for Trish's incomprehensible collection of clothing, and it's clean and spacious. Ally's already in love with the buttery-yellow light that comes streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the nook where her piano sits. Even with boxes strewn across the floor, the space already feels like it could be home. It doesn't hurt that she's here with her best friend. Ally nudges Trish with her foot; the girl looks over, voice faintly reverent as she speaks.

"I can't believe these are our lives."

Ally nods. "I know." Her reply is wistful.

She remembers when they were sixteen and starry-eyed dreamers: when all they had were cotton-candy hopes and crazy plans and blind ambition. The nostalgia makes her think back to the steps that have led up to this moment: long nights in the practice room with her songbook, hyper-intensive college days at Julliard, the first time she got hired, then fired, and the uphill climb that's been her progress in the music industry. But now, she's finally at a good place in her career; her songs are radio hits all over the country, she's writing regularly, and she's fostered enough respect in the artistic community that she has the luxury of being able to pick and choose her projects.

Recently, she's been doing more and more work with California-based labels, and moving out west seemed the next logical step; Los Angeles offers more opportunities than Miami for an up-and-coming songwriter, especially one who doesn't sing her own songs. The final deciding factor came when she decided to accept Hollywood director Nelson Narts' lucrative offer: the soundtrack of his next _Romeo and Juliet_ adaptation for the silver screen. Trish was already living in LA, breaking hearts, budgets, and board room silences as a managing editor for _Augmented_, a music publication fast on the rise in California. It was only a matter of time before the two decided to carry out college plans years in the making: best friends taking the city by storm.

Ally shakes herself out of the reverie as Trish yawns. "Want to order pizza?"

"Mushrooms on one half, pineapple on the other?" Ally's already on her phone searching for nearby delivery places.

Trish grins. "Just like old times."

* * *

Trish is unpacking in her room and Ally is hanging upside down on the couch, pickle in hand, when a shrill ringing comes from her cell.

Ally swings off the couch and trips over an open box as she reaches for the phone.

"Hello?" She answers breathlessly, shoving aside the box with her foot.

"Hi." The voice on the other end of the phone is pleasantly masculine. "Could I speak to Ally Dawson?"

"This is she." She replies politely. "May I ask who's speaking?"

"Austin Moon." The name is vaguely familiar, but Ally brushes it off; work in the music industry long enough, everyone starts to sound the same. "I was wondering if you were available for doing some consulting work on my new album."

Ally breathes in sharply. "I'm primarily a songwriter. I don't generally do much consulting." She says carefully. "I've been told my methods are... unconventional."

The voice on the other end chuckles. "Unconventional is kind of what I need right now." He replies sheepishly.

Ally tilts her head into the phone. She's only consulted on albums a few times; mostly, she prefers writing on her own, so she doesn't have to deal with someone else's voice in her head. Plus, she's got a lot on her plate right now, what with the movie and finishing up with her Miami clients. A rejection hovers on her lips before she pauses. She has to admit that she's intrigued. Artists rarely call her themselves, and it's even rarer that they admit to needing help. There's something in her gut telling her that this Austin Moon could be an adventure. And hey, if there's any place for new adventures, it's this city.

"Where should I meet you?"

* * *

Next up: Austin and Ally meet for the first time. And what does "unconventional" mean, exactly?


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Short chapters seem to be the M.O. for this plotline, so I'm just going with it. Not too much exciting stuff in this chapter; just character development and dialogue movin' right along. As always, let me know what you think!

* * *

"Fly me to the moon,

let me play among the stars..."

**-Frank Sinatra**

"Austin Moon?"

Austin starts. He'd told Ally to meet him at _The Beanery,_ a local cafe near his apartment, primarily because it's a bit out of the way. Fans don't often frequent the coffee shop. But he's half an hour early for their meeting and it can't be Ally, so he looks up, expecting to have to fend off gaggle of teenage girls, smartphones and albums in hand. Instead, he meets the wide-eyed gaze of a tiny brunette, slim fingers wrapped around a paper cup, her other hand outstretched.

"I'm Ally Dawson."

The internet had been surprisingly unhelpful last night when it had come to finding a clear picture of her, so he's a little taken aback. Austin doesn't know what he expected her to look like, but it wasn't this: all flowered skirts and cardigans, serious eyes and a sweet smile. She looks more like a kindergarten teacher than veteran Hollywood songwriter, but her credentials speak for themselves.

"Oh, um. Yeah. Hi."

Austin wonders when he became a sixteen-year-old schoolboy again, bumbling and shy in front of a pretty girl. _A pretty girl's never held your career in her hands before._ He reminds himself, clearing his throat.

"Want to sit?"

_Well that's marginally better_, he thinks to himself. _At least that was a full sentence._

Ally slides into the chair across from him, as she takes a sip from her cup. "I love this place." Her voice is friendly and lilting. "Their hazelnut lattes might even be the reason I moved to Los Angeles."

"You've been here before?" Austin says, surprised. "It's not a big LA hotspot."

She laughs. "I think coffee might run through my veins." Ally admits candidly, taking another sip. "The first weekend I came to check out apartments, I spent an entire day wandering the city, searching for the perfect cup."

The anecdote is light, incidental, but Ally's openness is something Austin's never heard before from someone as involved as she is with the performance industry.

"Did you just move here?" He asks curiously. "I noticed you write a lot for artists on the West Coast."

Ally nods. "Yeah, just moved here a few days ago: the day you called, actually. It's been a long time coming though. I just had some loose ends to wrap up back home."

Austin finds himself wanting to know more about this girl, with her honesty and serious eyes, and a career in an industry built on lies and flashing lights.

"Where was home?"

"Miami." He catches an undercurrent of wistfulness in her voice.

"Do you miss it?"

"My parents, sometimes. But LA's beautiful, and I'm living with my best friend for the first time since college. And I love that I'm surrounded by music all the time, everywhere I go. Especially in the most surprising places." Her voice lowers conspiratorially, and Austin leans in unconsciously. "Like, Brent, the barista over there?" She points at a burly, tattooed man grinding coffee beans behind the counter. He nods in their direction and Ally waves back. Then she continues. "He's an amazing opera singer."

Austin almost spits out his coffee.

"What?"

Ally swings back in her seat, finishing her latte. "I know. Surprising, right? But I think that's my favorite thing about LA. Everyone's got a talent. A story." She lowers her chair legs back on the ground and looks at Austin inquisitively. "So what's your story, Austin Moon?"

"I was born and raised just outside LA." He says automatically. "My parents, Mike and Mimi Moon, own a mattress company. I've wanted to be a singer for as long as I remember. When I was first starting out, I sang gigs anywhere I could find them, until I was eighteen, and Jimmy Starr discov-"

Ally interrupts him. "I found all that online, Austin." She tilts her head. "Tell me something your tweeter account doesn't know."

This girl keeps pushing him off balance; but Austin's always been a fan of new experiences, and it's not just Ally Dawson's career that interests him now. It's the girl behind the resume. There's something about her that makes him want to be just as candid: just as real. So for the first time in a long time, he answers a question with a straight, unrehearsed answer.

"The first real song I ever wrote was for my grandma." He begins.

Ally raises her eyebrows, but doesn't say anything.

He continues. "I was sixteen. It was for her funeral. My parents weren't around much when I was younger, because 'Moon's Mattress Kingdom' was just taking off. So I spent a lot of time with my grandparents; they practically raised me, really. My grandpa was the one who taught me about music; his vinyl collection filled an entire room, and I grew up on Joplin and Sinatra, Fleetwood Mac, the Beatles, Neil Diamond and Billy Joel. He's the reason I know how to read and write music. But my grandma was the one who taught me about life. How to live honestly and love freely and to never resist a good impulse. She's the reason I know how to turn life into songs." He thinks about months of crumpled papers. "Or knew how, I guess."

"I'll do it." Her voice shifts Austin out of his momentary brooding.

"What?"

"I'll do it. I'll consult." She says. Austin is about to heave a sigh of relief when she continues. "But I want you to know that I take what I do seriously. There'll be late nights and early mornings, and that won't change because you're hungover or chatting up a socialite or jetting off on a whim. I respect the music too much for that-" Ally looks pensive as she pauses, regarding Austin over her empty cup. He opens his mouth to protest just as she finishes her thought. "and I think you do too."

Austin hurriedly clamps his mouth shut. He's beginning to think this girl knows everything he's thinking.

"So. When do you want to start?" Ally whips out a leather-bound book and Austin squints at it, confused. Then he realizes what it is.

"Is that a Filofax?" He reaches over the table to grab the book and she whacks his wrist with it. He holds up his hands in defense. "Are you, like, eighty? I think the last time I saw one of those was in a _museum_. Why don't you just use your phone?"

She pulls out a flip phone and shakes it in his direction, and Austin tries to suppress his laughter. He fails. Ally glares at him without venom as she slips the phone back into her pocket. "I know. Call me old-fashioned; I just like writing things down."

She flips the Filofax open and pulls out a pen. "How's tomorrow morning for you? Around 7:30?"

Austin's still chuckling as he replies. "Tomorrow's great. Here again?"

"It's a date." She blushes as she realizes what she just said. "Not a date!" She corrects hurriedly. "I mean, not that I'm implying that I wouldn't want to go on a date with you, or that you can't get dates, you seem like a great person thus far and you have a lovely smile and you're a famous singer so you must have girls chasing you all the time, right? But you're my client and I don't date clients, really, and now I'm rambling I knew this was going to happen, please feel free to stop me at any point before I further embarrass myself, like telling you about the time I dumped mac and cheese on Taylor Swift at the Grammy Awards, or the time I met George Clooney and tripped down a flight of stairs, or-"

It's the first time in the entire conversation that she's been the one flustered, and Austin chuckles. Turnabout's fair play, and watching her ramble, he's reminded that despite the extensive amount of self-possession and her uncanny instinct for reading people, Ally Dawson is just as young as he is, in a profession that calls for children grown up too far, too fast. It's actually a little reassuring.

He lets her run on for a little bit longer _(Why is she talking about pickles and geese?)_ before he finally interrupts her."See you tomorrow, Ally."

She lets out a breath as her cheeks darken. "See you tomorrow."

Then, just for the pure hilarity of her reaction, he turns midstep to look back at her and grins mischievously. "It's a date."

He hears her huff as he's walking away, and makes a mental note to thank Dez. Hiring a consultant wasn't a bad idea. Plus, sending Ally Dawson into a tailspin is the most fun he's had in weeks.

* * *

Ally gapes at Austin's retreating back.

"Of all the ridiculous, incorrigible, irritating clients in the world, you had to pick this one." She mutters as she tucks her Filofax back into her bag. Slinging the bag over her shoulder, she walks to the door and tosses her empty cup into the trash as she waves goodbye to Brent. "Just get his album written. You've done it before. It'll be easy as pie." Ally says to herself as the door swings closed behind her. She ignores the niggling feeling of foreboding that with Austin Moon, nothing is quite that simple.

* * *

Next up: The first songwriting session...


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Just movin' along. As usual, let me know what y'all think. And bonus points if you get all the references in this chapter!

* * *

"Without realizing it,

the individual composes her life according to the laws of beauty,

even in the times of greatest distress."

**-Milan Kundera**

Ally makes it to The Beanery at exactly 7:30 AM the next day, a novel in hand. It's a Saturday morning, so the cafe is still and quiet as she walks in, expecting to wait for Austin. To her surprise, he's already there, sitting in the same spot as yesterday, with two cups in front of him. He waves at her as she walks in and she admits to herself that she might have underestimated Austin's dedication.

"I got you your latte. Hazelnut, right?"

"I...yeah. Thanks." She takes the cup from him and pulls up a chair. "So where do you want to start?"

He shrugs. "I am entirely in your hands." He spreads his arms and grins disarmingly. "Work your magic."

Austin watches, curious, as Ally turns to reach for something in her bag. He hears pages ruffling; then his view of Ally is blocked by a monumental pile of books.

"They're musical biographies." Ally's explanation is breathless. Her head pops over the top of the books, hair mussed from wrestling with what looks to Austin, like the entire contents of a small library.

"To use as paperweights?" He says, looking at her hopefully.

"Nope. We're immersing you in the minds of songwriters. Get reading, superstar."

He groans as he reaches for a book. "So this is what you meant by unconventional?"

* * *

It's two weeks later and they're sitting in The Beanery (Brent knows both of them by name now). It's around closing time, and Austin's working his way through The Beatles Anthology when Ally realizes that aside from the copy of his first record that his manager sent her _(Dez, was it? Odd name.),_ she has yet to hear Austin actually sing.

"Did you bring your guitar?" she says abruptly.

Austin looks up from the book. His brow furrows in confusion. "Yeah, I bring it everywhere; why?"

"Sing me something."

Austin blinks. "You mean right now?"

She nods. "Why not? The place is practically empty. And you've got your guitar."

He reaches to open his guitar case, then slings the guitar up onto his knee and looks at her for further direction. "What do you want me to sing?"

"Something that means something to you." She says, leaning back in her chair.

The moment he plays the first few chords, Ally knows what it is; an old Van Morrison song her parents used to dance to, before the divorce. She takes a long sip of her latte and wonders at the capacity of this boy to unnerve her.

_Hey, where did we go,_  
_Days when the rains came?_  
_Down in the hollow,_  
_Playing a new game,_  
_Laughing and a-running, hey, hey,_  
_Skipping and a-jumping_  
_In the misty morning fog with_  
_Our, our hearts a-thumping_  
_And you, my brown-eyed girl,_

_You, my brown-eyed girl._

The song is obviously one he knows well, and she watches as Austin loses himself to the music. His voice is slow and smooth, and minutes into the song, Ally catches herself absently watching the way the sunlight slopes across his cheekbones. She snaps herself out of it, murmuring under her breath. "Too much coffee."

* * *

This song always makes Austin think of summer days and firefly nights and the old record store where he played his first gig. He finds himself thinking that now, it'll remind him of hazelnuts and coffee, Ally and the bright smile she gives him as he finishes. _(He thinks Van Morrison and his grandpa are sending him a message about this brown-eyed girl.)_

* * *

The last note sounds and scattered applause comes from behind the counter, where the baristas have congregated to listen. Brent offers Austin a fist bump as the small group disperses to prep for the morning rush. Katie, a chatty redhead Ally's spoken to a few times, winks at her as she walks back to the kitchen, nodding in Austin's direction. "Hon, you've got yourself one of the good ones."

Ally flushes as she shakes her head. "He's not mine. Most definitely not mine."

Katie raises her eyebrows. "Does he know that?"

* * *

Ally's still pondering Katie's words when Austin sits back down, slipping his guitar back into its case.

"So, what'd you think?"

She reaches below the table for her bag to avoid looking at him. _It was amazing. _"It was...not terrible."

He grins. "I should've known you'd be even harder to please than _Rolling Stone_."

"That's because you're used to being good-looking and charming and getting your way." Ally replies, sitting back up.

"You think I'm charming?"

"That's not the poi-"

"But you think I'm charming."

"It's not that easy with me, Austin."

Austin's eyes light up at the phrase and she looks on, puzzled, as he starts speaking.

"So it's not gonna be easy. It's gonna be really hard. We're gonna have to work at this every day, but I want to do that because I want you." He pauses. "To help me write music."

Ally wrinkles her nose. "What was that?"

Austin stares at her, wide-eyed. "Dude, you've never seen _The Notebook_? We need to remedy that, Ally D." He slings an arm around her shoulder. "What are you doing Saturday?"

"Don't call me Ally D." She smacks him with a stack of sheet music. "And focus. I swear, you have the attention span of a seven-year old child."

Ten minutes later, as Ally's sifting through some of Austin's unfinished songs, Austin jumps up from the table with a yelp.

"Sharpstaplesharpstaplesharpstaple." He sticks his knuckle in his mouth and Ally watches him with laughing eyes.

"You doing okay there superstar?"

He sits back down and looks at her, accusatory. "It's your fault. I always paper clip my music. Now you come in with all your rules and focusing and heavy books and staples. You are fostering a dangerous workplace, Ally Dawson."

She pats his hand consolingly. "I'm sure you'll survive."

"But what if I don't? What if I have tetanus? Austin grabs her wrist and pulls her towards him. He locks eyes with Ally seriously. "If I die of metal poisoning today, I want you to know that I forgive you. And promise me you'll survive. That you won't give up, no matter what happens, no matter how hopeless. Promise me now, Ally, and never let go of that promise."

She tilts her head. "Austin, what are you talking about? It's just a prick. And look, it's stopped bleeding already."

Austin stares at her disbelievingly as she sits back up and picks up a pen. "_Titanic_? No? Really? What kind of girl are you?"

* * *

A month later, they've only gotten two songs down. They read and write together pretty much every other day; mostly at The Beanery, sometimes at Starr's studios: anywhere, as Ally puts it, with "creativity, coffee, and no shiny things to distract you, Austin." There's a rhythm to their partnership now; Austin brings her a hazelnut latte whenever he gets there before her, and she got him his own Filofax so he'd stop penciling himself into hers. She knows that he's a hopeless romantic with a penchant for quoting movies, and he knows that she's an action junkie with a secret soft spot for Hugh Grant. There are moments when it surprises Ally how much of a role Austin has come to play in her life: how much she's come to depend upon his humor and optimism, how fond she's grown of his quirks.

And then there are times like this.

It's three in the morning when her phone rings shrilly. She leans over and smacks it, but the noise doesn't stop, so she pulls it closer to check the caller id.

It's Austin.

"Of course." She mumbles under her breath as she picks up the phone. Before she can even say anything, Austin starts talking.

"I came up with an idea for a song. Wanna go get pancakes?"

Ally pushes herself up to look at the clock on her nightstand. "It's three in the morning, Austin. Three."

She can hear the grin in his voice. "You said late nights and early mornings, right? This is both!"

Ally grumbles into the phone. "You know that's not what I meant. This is an absurd hour." But she gets out of bed and slips into shoes and a jacket. She's gotten to know Austin's writing habits pretty well by now, and she knows that inspiration's been fleeting and far between. Plus, now that she's awake, she is kind of hungry.

"Well then, Ally D, you should've been more clear."

"Don't call me Ally D." She says automatically.

"Okay, Allybug."

"Or Allybug." She sighs, grabbing her car keys and her purse on the way out the door. "Where do you even go about finding pancakes at 3 in the morning?"

Austin's reply is gleeful. "Does that mean you're coming?"

"Well, we might as well get something done, what with you waking me up in the dead of night. Thanks for that, by the way." She says wryly.

"You're welcome." His voice is way too cheerful for this hour of the morning, but Ally finds that she's smiling in spite of herself. _This boy._ "Met me at The Griddler, on the corner of Third and King. I'm already on my way. Want me to order for you?"

"No, Third and King's just down the street from my apartment. I'll meet you there. And you owe me so much coffee."

"As you wish."

"_Princess Bride. _I know that one!"

"Nice to know your movie knowledge isn't entirely lacking." He sounds amused. "See you soon, Allygator."

"Is it too late to quit?"

Her only answer is Austin's chuckle crackling over the phone.

* * *

Ally stares, fascinated, as the boy sitting across from her drowns a stack of blueberry pancakes in maple syrup. Just when she thinks he's done, he eyes the stack and carefully pours again, until the syrup teeters dangerously close to the edge of the plate. He then proceeds to roll up what looks like an entire pancake, and stuffs it into his mouth all at once.

"Watching you eat hurts me." She informs Austin, as she cuts her own stack of pancakes into neat, bite-sized pieces. "In my soul."

"Poanlrkjresomphsegad." He nods emphatically around a mouthful of maple syrup and blueberries.

Ally nudges him with her foot. "Chew, then swallow, then talk. Such is the way of the world, Austin."

He swallows and looks at her gravely. "Pancakes are so good."

She shrugs as she spears a piece with her fork. "I prefer waffles."

She looks up when she hears a strangled cough.

"I told you to chew_, then_ swallow." She watches with concern as Austin gasps for breath. "Are you okay?"

A look of utter betrayal spreads across his face as his choking slows. "You're a _waffle-lover_?" His whisper is scandalized.

She swallows a mouthful of pancake before she answers. "Yeah. I like that they're crisp. And they're neater to eat."

She jumps as Austin slams his hands on the table dramatically. "The pursuit of life, liberty, and breakfast will not be slowed by naysayers like you, with your traitorous talk of neatness and _waffles._" He makes a face at the word, voice dripping with disgust.

Ally laughs and taps his plate with her fork. "Just eat your pancakes, Thomas Jefferson. We have a song to write, remember?"

He shakes his head at her sorrowfully as he returns his focus to the platter in front of him. "And I thought we had a special bond, Allydoodle."

"Not my name."

"Can I call you Allycat?"

"Nope."

"What about Ally-Llama?"

"Absolutely not."

"Ally-Zebra?"

"Are you just tacking random animals onto my name now?"

"Kangar-Ally?"

"...eat your pancakes, Austin."

* * *

Next up: More Dez/Trish involvement. And a nursing home. I think? Have not written it yet...


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Not entirely satisfied with this chapter. The problem is that I have the conclusion written. Just not the in-between stuff. So... yeah.

Let me know if y'all dig it/hate it/are meh.

* * *

"...thinking that if day has to become night,

this is a beautiful way."

**-e.e. cummings**

Ally realizes sometime after Thanksgiving that she and Austin have been working together for three months. It's odd; she feels like she's known him her entire life, but at the same time, the weeks are flying by. The recording dates for his album are drawing perilously close, and despite the occasional burst of inspiration, Austin's still in a slump.

It's past midnight on a Friday, the first day of December, and Austin's got six songs finished. They're sitting in the studio and Ally's curled up on the sofa in the corner, working on _Romeo and Juliet,_ radio crackling softly in the background. Austin's sitting on the ground in front of her, picking out chords on his guitar, when Sinatra comes on, crooning through the static. Austin starts to play along quietly and Ally sets her pencil down and pulls her knees to her chest to listen. The song reminds her of the first conversation they ever had, and an idea suddenly hits her.

"What are you doing tomorrow morning?"

He turns to look at her. "Why?"

"You'll see." She closes her songbook and stands up. "Meet me at my apartment at 8. Bring your guitar."

"Has anyone ever told you that you're annoyingly cryptic?"

"I've found that curiosity is the best motivator for people under the age of ten." Ally pauses. "And also you."

Austin leans back into the couch lazily as he watches Ally pull on her coat. "Are you leaving now then?"

She nods, walking back to the couch to pick up her bag. "Don't stay too late, yeah? Early start tomorrow."

Austin tugs on the edge of her coat as she passes him. "Yup. Drive safe." He picks his guitar up again, and as Ally leaves, she can hear him strum the beginning chords of _Fly Me to the Moon_.

* * *

Austin arrives half an hour late the next morning and Ally answers the door with a cereal bowl in one hand, phone in the other.

"I was just about to call you."

He's practically drooping in her doorway and she finds herself softening. "You look exhausted. When did you end up going home?"

Austin looks sheepish. "I didn't."

She gapes. "You slept at the studio? Why?"

He reaches a hand up to rub the back of his neck. "Lost track of time. Woke up on the couch at 7:45, barely had time to get home and shower before I headed over here." He yawns and offers her a sleepy grin. "But I'm good to go."

She shakes her head and ushers him into the apartment. "Austin, you're dead on your feet. You can take a nap on my couch; we'll just leave later. It's not a big deal."

He makes a beeline towards her couch and collapses, grateful voice muffled by the pillow. "Allypad, I think I love you."

Her heart skips a beat, and she's glad he can't see her cheeks darken. "Don't be silly. Sleep, Austin. I'll wake you up in a couple hours."

He's already snoring as she slips into her bedroom, closing the door softly behind her. She runs a hand through her hair and sighs.

"Oh boy."

* * *

Austin wakes to the sight of Ally sitting at a piano, backlit by sunlight streaming in from tall windows.

"But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Ally is the sun."

Ally falls off the piano bench with a thump and Austin winces.

"Oops?" He offers as Ally glares at him halfheartedly from the ground.

"You wake up and the first thing you think of is Shakespeare?"

Austin shrugs. "I am furthering your education in the language of romance, Al."

Ally wrinkles her nose. "Don't call me Al. Al reminds me of New York taxi drivers, and belligerent car salesmen, of which I am neither."

Austin sits up, stretching. "Someday, I'll find a nickname you like."

"Doubt it." Ally says, picking herself up off the floor. "Ready to go?"

"Yup. Are you going to tell me where we're going?"

Ally smiles brightly. "Just wait."

* * *

The drive is an hour or so, and Austin fiddles with the car radio the entire way. Ally whacks his hands away from the stereo the first few times it happens, but gives up when Austin starts singing the wrong lyrics to every song that plays.

She pulls into the parking lot of a large red-brick building and Austin practically leaps from the car to read the sign by the doors.

He turns back to Ally. "Why are we at a nursing home?"

She ignores him and walks in, pulling him along by the strap of his guitar case.

"Hi, we're checking in for Saturday Sing?"

The receptionist at the front desk turns at the sound of Ally's voice, and a wide smile spreads across her face. "Ally! I'm glad you're back; the residents have missed you these past couple of weeks."

"Emma!" Ally reaches over the desk to give her a hug. "I didn't know you were working today. How are you? How are the kids?"

"I'm good; the kids are great. Oliver had a cold earlier this week, but he's better now, and just as rambunctious as ever."

"I'm glad he's feeling better; fall colds are the worst. And I'm sorry I haven't been around; work's just been hectic lately. But I come bearing gifts." Ally gestures to Austin behind her. "New volunteer. Can we get him a nametag?"

Emma hands Ally a nametag and a marker. "He's cute." She nods her head in Austin's direction.

He preens a little at the comment and Ally turns her head to look at him. "Yeah, he's alright."

Austin looks offended as Ally thanks Emma and drags him down the hallway.

"I'm alright?"

"Yup."

"You really know how to stomp on a guy's heart, Ally D." He tugs on a strand of her hair, dancing away as she tries to poke him in the ribs.

"Ran out of other nicknames?"

"Not a chance Ally-Wally."

* * *

Ally stops suddenly in a large open doorway, and Austin almost stumbles into her. "What's happening?" He looks around to get his bearings. They're at the entrance of a large conference room, with open glass windows and sunlight gilding weathered floorboards. There's a piano and a few wooden stools in the center of the room, and the light hum of laughter and conversation spills into the hallway where they're standing. There are people playing cards at a table next to the piano, women knitting by the window, and a lively game of shuffleboard in the corner of the room. One of the women at the card table turns and sees them in the doorway.

"Ally Dawson!" She stands, reaching for a nearby walker. "You are a sight for old eyes. Are you back for Saturday Sing? And who's your handsome friend?"

"See." Austin whispers. "She thinks I'm handsome."

Ally pats him on the shoulder. "Okay, Casanova."

She turns to the older woman and wraps her in a warm embrace. "Grettie, you look younger every day and you know it. Ernie certainly seems to think so." She tilts her head in the direction of the card table. "Still sharking all the boys?"

Grettie winks. "You know it."

"Hey Grets, are you going to keep her all to yourself?" One of the men at the table hollers.

"I'm giving you more time to figure out all the ways I'm going to take your money." Grettie yells back. She turns to Ally. "Want to watch me fleece the rest of 'em?"

Ally smiles. "Just for a minute. I brought Austin here for Saturday Sing."

Grettie turns to Austin, who's been watching their conversation with fascination.

"Are you an unsuitable cad or an unredeemable criminal?" She says abruptly.

"Um... no?" Austin looks like a deer in headlights and Ally suppresses the overwhelming urge to laugh.

Grettie shrugs. "Good enough for me." She turns to Ally. "I approve. Y'all are going to have adorable children."

It's Ally's turn to sputter for words, as Austin looks on, amused.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Ally's been passed around half the room. Evidently, she's been volunteering here every weekend since she got to LA, only missing the past week because she had a deadline for Nelson. Austin watches her ask about grandchildren and exchange jokes and greet people by name, and he thinks that this girl might shine brighter than anyone else he knows.

"Austin!" She calls him over to where she's standing, by the piano. "So Saturday Sing happens every weekend; local singers and musicians come by and play sets all day." She explains as he boosts himself up to sit on top of the instrument. "There's an open mic in the afternoons too, for any residents who want to perform. And honestly, some of them could teach both of us a thing or two. I signed us up for this morning's slot, but the way things turned out, they said they'd just slip us in right now."

"I don't have a setlist prepped or anything."

"You don't need one. Your entire childhood is a setlist for this. Sinatra? Van Morrison? Just pull out some Beatles and you'll be a hit with this crowd. I just want you to get a feel for what it's like to perform for an audience that doesn't expect you to be anything: not a rockstar or a celebrity or a performer. The only requirement is that you love the music." Ally says, opening the cover of the piano and sliding onto the bench.

"Are you going to play accompaniment?" Austin asks curiously.

"Nope." Ally's mouth quirks up. "I'm going to sing."

* * *

Three notes into _Blackbird, _Ally joins in and Austin's fingers slip on his guitar. Her voice is silvery and sweet, and her harmony twines with his until he forgets to keep playing, forgets to look at his audience, forgets everything but Ally and the song between them. He doesn't want it to end, wants an infinity of duets with this girl. His mind races as he realizes what this girl's come to mean to him. What she's come to mean for his music. _A new muse._

* * *

Ally meets his eyes as they hit the last note and she finds herself breathless. Loud applause and catcalls shake them out of the moment, and Ally reaches for Austin's hand to bow jokingly. Heat skitters across her skin as he weaves their fingers firmly, and she takes a deep breath. This boy is doing a number on her heart, and she's not sure how long she can deny it.

* * *

Next Up: LOVE CONFESSIONS GALORE. or that may be the chapter after. Your guess is as good as mine.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Probably one more chapter after this. Also I realize the timing in this story is a little weird; for clarification's sake, right now, they're about five months into their partnership and it's right around the end of December. I know it's moving a bit fast, but these chapters are supposed to be sequential moments in the development of their relationship: the significant ones, the silly ones, the little things that come with falling slowly into not-yet-love-but-something-more. As always, please review/comment/critique/let me know if there's anything y'all want to see!

* * *

"Blackbird singing in the dead of night,

take these broken wings

and learn to fly."

**-The Beatles**

"Where did you get heart-shaped salami?"

Ally and Trish are sitting on the couch in pajamas, eating frozen grapes, crackers and salami as they catch each other up on their lives. _Augmented_' is trying out a new template, so Trish has been working overtime, trying to get everything prepped for the New Year's launch party. Ally's been wrapped up with Austin's music and Nelson Narts' movie for the past five months, and even though they share an apartment, she feels like she hasn't seen her best friend in a decade.

Trish laughs in reply to Ally's question. "Stole it from catering. We've been testing out hors d'oeuvres for the party, and heart-shaped salami didn't make the cut."

Ally takes a bite of the slice in her hand. "Those partygoers are going to be missing out."

Trish settles herself deeper into the couch. "You're coming, right? It's an excuse to get dressed up and spend quality time with your best friend." Sh coaxes. "And it's sponsored by Starr Records, so you'll know some of the people there."

Ally nods. "Wouldn't miss it for the world. Saturday, yeah?" She fiddles with the stem of a grape, stumbling over her next words. "Do you kn-Are artists invited too?"

"Does this have to do with a certain blond singer you've been spending time with lately?" Trish smiles knowingly.

Ally ducks her head, suddenly fascinated with the printed flannel of her pajamas. "It's not like that. He's just a client, that's all."

Trish looks at Ally, skeptical. "He called you at 3 in the morning to go get pancakes. And you actually went. You. Miss Eight-Hours-A-Night-And-Full-Sleep-Cycles. You've pushed scheduling and deadlines for him. Your Filofax, is, like, your _child. _Ally, you hate last-minute changes."

"He made a breakthrough in his writing." Ally protests. "It couldn't wait. What if he had lost it by morning? And Austin's the client; if he's not in full functioning mode, there's no point in doing whatever it was that was scheduled anyways."

Trish raises her eyebrows at Ally. "You're a dedicated songwriter, Ally, but you've never made this much concerted effort before for 'just a client'. Austin's different, and you know it."

"He is different." Ally admits. "But not in the way you think. It's nothing romantic. He's just-He's not like anyone I've ever met before. That's all. He's ridiculous and unorganized and pretty much unlike me in every way, except that I've never worked with someone who loves music as much as he does." An unconscious smile slips across her face as she talks about Austin, and Trish looks on knowingly. "He has no attention span to speak of, but he's also insanely creative, and strangely honest, for someone with his level of fame. I didn't expect him to be this open with me, and I made a lot of assumptions about him at first; I thought he'd be like every other jaded rockstar out there. But he's... I don't know. Normal. Real. And he has this way of charming himself into your life without you even realizing he's there until you're faced with-well, a 3 AM wakeup call. So yes. I'm rather fond of him. And it's true that I think of him as a friend now; it'd be pretty impossible not to. But he's just that. Just a friend."

Trish tilts her head. "It sounds more like you're trying to convince yourself."

There are times Ally is grateful that her best friend understands her so well. This isn't one of them.

"Even if I wanted something else, I don't date clients, Trish."

"He won't always be your client."

Ally's reply is quiet, and Trish finally understands her best friend's reticence to admit she's more than just fond of the newest development in her life.

"But what if I'm just a stop on the road to him?"

Trish silently curses Ally's parents, and the careless disregard with which they treated their daughter as she was growing up. The divorce, the fighting, the long trips to Africa and music conventions; they'd let Ally fall to the wayside as they grappled with their own problems, and as a result, Ally had grown up independent and strong and unselfish, but with trust issues and an abandonment complex a mile wide.

"I don't think you're giving Austin enough credit, Ally. You said so yourself; he's different. Not like anyone you've ever met before. Don't you think he deserves a chance before you write him off?" Trish says quietly. Then she pauses. "No pun intended."

Ally's laugh trails off with a sigh. "That's assuming he even cares about me."

"Ally. I've met him all of twice, and even I can see how much you mean to him. He looks at you like you hung the stars, and you look at him the same way." Trish wrinkles her nose. "Your problem is that you're never looking at each other at the same time."

Ally is silent for a minute. Trish reaches for the remote to start the movie when Ally finally speaks.

"I jus-I just don't know how to let myself trust him."

Trish moves to give her an affectionate hug. "Oh, Ally. When it comes to love, we're all a little lost." She backs away and looks Ally in the eye. "But do you remember what my mom always told us?"

Ally smiles wanly. "Fall freely, love deeply."

"Exactly. That's what you need to do." Trish says matter-of-factly as she pulls away to unpause the movie.

Ally leans back into the couch, pensive, as the opening credits roll. "You forgot the second part." She murmurs. _"Hold on tightly, let go lightly."_

* * *

It's New Year's Eve, and _Augmented's _launch party is stunning. Trish, clad in a spectacular, glimmering blue dress, is in her element as she mingles with guests, welcomes sponsors and discusses the magazine's new look. She looks over at Ally and gives her a quick thumbs up before turning to say something to Megan Simms. Ally waves back, smiling as she watches her best friend reap the rewards of months of hard work and late nights.

She's amazed by everything Trish has done; the ballroom where the party's being held is beautiful. There are silk streamers sweeping across chandeliers, sparkling ice sculptures and a jazz quartet, gleaming marble floors and floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a moonlit view of most of LA. The waiters are so coordinated Ally half-suspects Trish hired professional dancers, and the food is almost too beautiful to eat. Ally bites into a miniature chocolate croissant. Almost.

She looks around the room. She's chatted with a few previous clients, has already talked with Dez about how close they are to finishing Austin's record, even had a brief conversation with Jimmy Starr about future songwriting for the company. But it's nearing midnight and she still hasn't seen Austin; she knows there are dozens parties happening across the city, and assumes he had other plans.

Ally finishes her croissant and takes a sip of the champagne she's been nursing since the beginning of the night. It's been four hours since she got here, and home is starting to sound really good. She thinks she might say goodbye to Trish and take herself back to the apartment: to watch the ball drop on TV, maybe look over some of Austin's new songs _(He's been stunningly prolific lately) _and, most importantly, get out of these heels. She looks down. The black Louboutins are gorgeous, but it's a little concerning that she hasn't been able to feel her toes for a good hour now.

Ally's moving towards the doors, mouthing a goodbye to Trish and contemplating the merits of pajamas and a pint of fruity-mint swirl, at when someone whisks her into the coat closet. A hand closes over her mouth as she lets out a muffled shriek.

"Ally! It's me."

She turns at the familiar whisper. Austin's standing there, surrounded by peacoats and fur dusters and scarves. He's wearing a suit, and she's never seen him dressed this nicely (_of course Austin Moon cleans up well_) but he's still her Austin _(When did she start thinking of him as hers?). _He's beaming at her, tie crooked and hair mussed; Ally resists the urge to run her fingers through it. "Austin, what are you doing? Why are we in a closet?"

He shrugs. "I didn't really come to talk to anyone but you or Dez, and he's been trailing your friend Trish for the past twenty minutes." He pauses. "I think he likes her."

Ally laughs. "Trish and Dez! Who would've thought."

Austin's eyes meet hers. "It's New Year's Eve. What better time is there to start a new adventure?" Austin's gaze is steady, and Ally thinks he might not be talking about their best friends anymore.

She hears the countdown start outside and opens her mouth to speak. "Austin." She stops. She feels like they're on the brink of something, something huge and new and wonderful and terrifying, and her heart skips a beat. _(WhatdoIsay-whatdoIdo-howfarhaveIfallen) _"Happy-almost-New-Year." She finishes lamely.

"10."

"9."

"8."

"Happy-almost-New-Year." Austin's breath skims across her skin and Ally wonders hazily when he got so close.

"7."

"You have glitter on your face." He's brushing a thumb across her cheekbone and her heart is in her throat.

"6."

"Thanks." She whispers. It's meant to be _thank you for getting the glitter off,_ but it comes out as _thank you for being you, thank you for being here, thank you for turning my life upside down, thankyouthankyouthankyou._

"5."

"Always." _I'll always be here._

"4."

"Austin." _What does this mean, who are we together, what do we call this duet._

"3."

"Ally." _I'm halfway to loving you._

"2."

"I'm glad you're here." _Fall freely._

"1."

Ally tilts her head up to look at him, wide-eyed and beautiful and in a burst of noise and fireworks and flashing lights, Austin kisses her. It's a swan song kiss, soft and hopeful and new, but also an irreversible ending to something Ally's not sure she's quite ready to lose. Austin lets her go to lean his forehead on hers; she closes her eyes and lets herself melt into him for a second, before she hears a raucous cheer outside and remembers _wherewhowhat_ they are. She steps back.

"You shouldn't have done that." she whispers, fingers pressed to her lips.

"Why?" Austin leans closer and brushes a strand of hair off her face. "Look. We fit, Ally." _Love deeply. _He weaves his fingers through hers and she squeezes his hand for a moment before letting go. _Hold on tightly._

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Austin." She backs away, tears in her eyes. "I ca-I can't do this right now." _Let go lightly._

Austin looks at her, bewildered and Ally aches to smooth away the furrow in his brow, to kiss away the frown on his face. But instead, she clenches her hands at her sides, nails digging into her palms, and walks away from a boy with her heart in his hands. And she doesn't know why.

* * *

Next up: Ally figures out how to let herself trust Austin. But will it be too late to fix things?


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Last chapter, lovely readers! As per usual, let me know what you think!

* * *

"I hope you don't mind,

I hope you don't mind,

that I put down into words,

how wonderful life is,

when you're in the world."

-**Elton John**

Dez lets himself into Austin's apartment two weeks after New Years and winces. His best friend has been running on autopilot, recording songs mechanically and going home right after. Ally's been markedly absent from the studio; her papers are still strewn everywhere and her mug sits in its usual place next to the coffeemaker, but the girl herself hasn't come in since December, and she's been ignoring everyone's calls. He knows it's not accident that Austin's slump and Ally's absence just happen to coincide, but Austin's been reluctant to talk and Dez hasn't wanted to push. According to Trish, Ally's been just as tight-lipped; he and Ally's best friend have been having lunch pretty regularly, and the only thing she knows is that Ally is equally miserable without Austin.

The boy in question is sitting on the couch disconsolately, guitar in hand, plucking the harmony to a vaguely familiar song _(Is that Van Morrison?) _when Dez walks in. Scattered across the coffee table are sheets of music and receipts from The Beanery with Ally's handwriting on the back, tucked under plates of half-eaten pancakes and a cookbook flipped open to a recipe for waffles.

"You look terrible."

Austin looks up as he hears his best friend's voice.

"Hey Dez."

Dez pats his shoulder sympathetically. "You look like a kangaroo motorcycle gang ran over you on their way to a marshmallow convention."

Austin doesn't even blink at the observation, just strums a few more chords. "Pretty accurate."

"So what happened."

"Nothing happened. She just-I don't know. She walked away from me. From us." Austin sets his guitar on the ground and stares at his hands. "And I don't know what to do."

"Well, not this, that's for sure."

"What?" Austin's voice is taken aback.

"You're Austin Moon. You're telling me you haven't learned anything from all those romance movies you watch? What about the grand gesture? Sweeping the girl off her feet?" Dez asks, waving his arms wildly. "How many times do you see Tom Hanks moping on his couch, or Ryan Gosling brooding over his guitar?"

Austin runs a hand through his hair in frustration. "You don't understand, Dez. I kissed her and I told her I wanted to be with her and she just left. Just turned around and walked away."

"And you didn't follow her?"

"I didn't think she wanted me to."

"And you were scared."

Austin explodes. "Of course I was scared. I'm still scared. I see her everywhere, Dez. I see her in the music I sing and the songs I write. I see her in the mugs at the studio, our table at The Beanery, the cardigan she left at my apartment. I can't hear a song without thinking about how she'd sing it, how she'd make it better, I can't eat pancakes without remembering that she likes waffles, and I _can't get her out of my head_." He takes a breath. "She gets me like no one I've ever met. And I miss her. But I kissed her and now we can't go back to the way we were."

"Maybe she's scared too, Austin." Dez says gently.

"Maybe."

"And isn't she worth fighting for?"

"I-" Austin pauses. "Yes." There's a light in his eyes as he stands. "Dez, I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think you might be a love whisperer or something."

"The love whisperer." Dez repeats. "I like it." Than he claps Austin on the back. "So. You going to go get the girl?"

* * *

Ally's sitting in her apartment, frowning at her watery coffee. She's been avoiding Austin, staying as close to her apartment as possible, which also means her daily caffeine options are pretty limited.

It's been over three weeks since the launch party, and she's been talking herself in circles. She knows that avoiding Austin is the last thing she should be doing, and she misses him terribly, but she doesn't know what to say. Doesn't know how to fix things. She knows she's fallen for him, knows it with the constancy of music, with the familiarity of her favorite song, knows it like she knows good coffee and the lyrics to Brown-Eyed Girl. But she's worried about the impermanence of a changing relationship, and she doesn't know if their partnership can grow to include all that he means to her. All that she thinks she might mean to him.

She sighs and walks to the sink, tipping her coffee down the drain. She misses hazelnut lattes _and Austin's smile _and the Beanery _guitar-piano harmonies _and her mug _old music and radio static._

There's a stack of mail on the counter that she's put off sorting through for a few days now. It's surprising that Trish hasn't touched it, but her best friend has been giving Ally the time and space she asked for, and she loves her for it.

"Rent, ads, insurance..." She murmurs as she flips through the envelopes. Then her heart stops. There's an envelope with her name scrawled across it in familiar handwriting, no return address. She unseals carefully. Inside, there's a short note and a CD case.

_Thinking of you._

The case is copy of Austin's completed album. Ally opens it with shaking hands. She's listed as collaborating songwriter on every track, even the ones she barely edited. She chokes back a teary laugh when she sees the dedication.

_"To Ally D; _

_'Do you remember when we used to sing_

_Sha la la la la la la la la la la dee dah _

_just like that.'_

_You are my new inspiration._

_Always,_

_Austin._

Ally drops the CD on the kitchen counter with a clatter. Then in a flurry of motion, she's tugging on her jacket and stumbling into shoes and sprinting out the door.

* * *

Austin's making pancakes and waiting for Dez to come over to talk about publicity for his album, when the doorbell rings.

"Dez, you have a key." He yells. There's no answer. He turns the stove off and walks towards the door. He swings it open, expecting his red-headed best friend.

"You know you can just let yourself in, ri-Ally?"

* * *

"Ally?"

"Hi." She smiles weakly.

"I didn't think it was you." Austin says numbly.

"I got your note."

"Yeah?"

Ally nods, and Austin shifts uneasily. She's here, but it's been a week since he sent her the album and he's not sure what to do. Not sure what she wants, what she's thinking, not sure if he's allowed to reach out and tug her into his arms: if he's allowed to do anything besides stand there and wait. So he waits.

* * *

Ally takes a nervous breath. "Before you close the door, just hear me out."

Austin's expression is unreadable, and Ally starts talking before she loses her nerve.

"When we first met, I was worried about letting you into my life. I thought you'd be another rockstar with empty promises and broken music, all bluster and apathy and wasted potential. But you weren't. Then you turned my world upside down with your pancakes and spontaneity, your hopeless romanticism, the way you throw yourself so fully into everything you do. I didn't even grasp that I was falling for you, until I found myself smack dab in the middle of it. And it was terrifying." She pauses. "But the only thing that scared me more than falling for you was realizing that you'd fallen for me too."

"Why?" It's the first thing Austin's said since he opened the door, and his face is still inscrutable. Ally blinks back tears as she looks down.

"Because it made us a possibility: something to take a chance on. And I'm not good at taking chances." Ally's voice tightens. "But these past few days reminded me that more than anything else, you taught me how to be fearless. How to jump all in with my eyes closed and my heart open." She takes a steadying breath. "I want to take a chance on this. On us."

There's a long silence as the blond boy locks eyes with the brunette girl, caught on opposite sides of a doorway three feet wide and two heartbeats deep. It stretches on until Ally finally tries to reach Austin one last time, swallowing back the fear that it's already too late.

"Falling for you; it was a million tiny little things that, when you added them all up, they meant we were supposed to be together. I knew it." She sees Austin's eyes widen at the reference, and continues, hoping he understands what she's trying to say. "And it's not because I'm lonely and it's not because it's January seventeenth. Because in the end, I'm just a girl, standing in front of a boy. Not saying that you complete me, because I know who I am without you, and I know who you are without me, and I like both those people. And I'm not asking you to love me, either. Not yet."

She drops her gaze to her hands, twisting her fingers together. "I guess what I'm trying to say is that we're not Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant. This isn't Seattle, you didn't build me a telescope or write me three hundred and sixty five letters. You're not Harry and I'm not Sally, and you're not a bad boy to my good girl, or a jock to my nerd, and I'm not dying of tuberculosis on a cabaret stage." Then she looks up at Austin with hopeful, questioning eyes. "But if you're a bird, I'm a bird. If this ship sinks, I'll always make room for you on my life raft. And in the end, or the beginning, or whatever this is right now; I'm just a girl, standing in front of a boy, saying 'Let's take on the world together.'"

A smile stretches slowly across Austin's face.

"You watched them?"

Ally shrugs nonchalantly, but she can't suppress the relief in her response.

"What can I say? No one can resist the call of Hugh Grant. And _Sleepless in Seattle was_ free on Netflix." She whooshes out a breath. "And then I might have missed you and your ridiculous movie quotes."

Austin's grin lights the entire hallway. "I think your version is my new favorite."

Then Ally's jumping up to wrap her arms around his shoulders and his hands are circling her waist, and he's spinning them in giddy circles. There's rambling apologies from both of them, Austin burying his nose in Ally's hair, and laughter: full and bright, real and wonderful.

And in the center of it all, there's just the two of them. A boy and a girl, and a forever song.

* * *

Ze end! I've been wanting to try out a high-school-centric Auslly, and I've been mulling over a few other things, but as of yet, nothing's concrete, so I think I might slip back into haitus for NaNoWriMo and exam reasons, unless a sudden muse/request strikes my fancy. Y'all have been a wonderful audience, and I hope you know how much I appreciate each and every one of your reviews. Thank you.


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